


Home Again

by deduceforme



Series: Second Chance [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 19:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deduceforme/pseuds/deduceforme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes home, and brings John with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Again

John could remember being in love a total of three times in his life. 

The first was with a girl he grew up with named Amy. John had dated her all through high school and he shared everything with her. She was the one who encouraged him to pursue his dream of becoming a doctor. They had even talked of going off to university together and maybe getting married someday, as kids in love sometimes did. But when the day came that John shared with her that he’d decided to go into the military, it turned out she’d fancied herself becoming a doctor’s wife, and hadn’t been to keen on possibly ending up a military widow. And that was it; they were through, and his heart was just a little bit broken.

John’s second love was nothing at all like the first. Instead of innocent puppy love, it was raw, and it was dangerous, and it was everything. Sherlock Holmes was everything. They were soul mates in every sense of the word. Sherlock had come into John’s life three years ago like whirlwind that swept him up, and dropped him into a new world where John had back everything he’d lost after being invalided home from the war. Sherlock had given him a home, a best friend, and a purpose. Sherlock _became_ John’s purpose and he loved him fiercely. But he never said. They were Sherlock and John; they solved crimes, John blogged about it, and there wasn’t time for confessions of love because Sherlock was a whirlwind that stopped for nothing and John didn’t want to be left behind. Sherlock was the only man John ever loved, and the only person John kept his feelings from. Sherlock was brilliant, and beautiful, and the most important person to John in this whole new world, and he died not knowing any of it. He died, and John’s heart shattered.

Unfortunately, Sherlock wasn’t the only love John had to watch die. His late wife Mary, his third love, was the other. She was dying, but she had so much life in her, and she shared it with John. She’d carefully put what she could of his broken heart back together after his loss of Sherlock, and understood that it could never be all hers since Sherlock had taken bits of it with him, but she loved him, and John clung to her strength. After Sherlock, John hadn’t thought he could ever be happy again, but Mary helped him. He wasted no time with marrying her, and he took every opportunity to tell her how wonderful she was. He wasn’t going to let her go not knowing how much she meant to him. He couldn’t live with anymore regret. Not after Sherlock. Inevitably, her sickness got the best of her and she passed away 7 months ago. They’d lived happily together for just over a year, and now John was alone again with his memories and regret and his re-broken heart, but this time he actually thought he could be okay. Mary had helped him the last time, but now he would help himself.

Or, at least he’d thought so until two minutes ago when he received a text from a number he couldn’t bring himself to delete from his phone three years ago that said

_Baker St. 6 P.M.  
Come if convenient.  
-SH_

and John’s head spun. 

He shouldn’t go. His mind screamed at him to just write it off as the cruel joke it probably was, but this was John, and the very last thing John was when it came to Sherlock was rational. In his heart he knew that this was Sherlock. Honestly, if anyone could come back from the dead after three years, it would be him. It was actually just like him to pull something like this just when John had finally set his mind to moving on. He was a selfish bastard, after all. 

He’d prayed for this in the beginning. That Sherlock wouldn’t actually be dead, and he’d get his second chance to tell him all the things he hadn’t said the first time around, but now that this was happening, he didn’t feel relieved. His heart threatened to beat out of his chest. He felt like he’d just been punched in the stomach, and he couldn’t breathe. He wanted to scream, or cry, or put his fist through a wall, but he didn’t do any of that.

He collected his things and went to ask Sarah if he could end his shift early. She took one look at how pale his face had gone, and had insisted on it. He left the Surgery and managed to flag down a cab, and found himself getting choked up when giving the address to the cabbie. _221B Baker Street_. Home. Even after being away from it for so long, that’s still what John considered it. He had great memories in the flat he lived in now that he had shared with Mary while she was alive, of course he had, but he never felt as at home there as he had in Baker Street with Sherlock.

It felt both wrong and so right standing on the doorsteps of 221B, and by now John was sure that he was actually going to have a heart attack. Just as he reached up to knock he heard, “Excuse me, sir, but are Dr. Watson?” from somewhere off to the side of him, and turned to see one of the employees John from Speedy’s walking over to him. 

“Yes?” 

“Dr. Watson a man stopped by earlier and asked me to give this to you. He gave me a description of you and everything,” the young woman said, sounding excited, handed over an envelope.

“Thank you,” he said, and waited for the girl to go back to work before opening it.

Inside he found a key, a key to 221B, and now he felt very much like he could throw up. He stood a few long moments more in front of the door trying to calm himself, when the door suddenly swung open, and there he was. His hair was shorter, and he was impossibly pale, and even thinner than John remembered, but those piercing, icy blue eyes were alive and staring right into him as they always had. Everything John had ever felt for Sherlock, all the love, the pain, surged forward and overwhelmed him, and he doubled over and retched.

“John,” he heard Sherlock say, and he felt Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder.

After a few minutes of dry heaving, he calmed enough to chance another look and was met with those nearly grey eyes staring back at him earnestly. He looked over at where Sherlock’s hand still rested on his shoulder and thanked god for it. The pressure of the strong, warm hand grounded him and reassured him that this was all real. 

Sherlock took a firm grip on either of John’s arms and hauled him to his feet.

“John,” Sherlock tried again, “aren’t you coming in?”

And John had to try his hardest not to laugh because Sherlock didn’t deserve it yet. 

He followed him up the familiar stairs and found the flat much the same as when he’d first seen it. Sherlock’s things were strewn about, and some still in boxes from just moving them in. He walked over to one of the open ones nearest to him, peered inside, and noticed that these were the things that he’d had to pack up himself and had given to Mycroft. _Mycroft._ Of course, Mycroft knew. He knew the whole time, the wanker.

“That bastard,” John said aloud.

Sherlock, who had been watching him intently, caught on immediately, and said, “I asked him to keep it from you, John. You couldn’t know.”

“Why the bloody hell not, Sherlock?!” John asked, the anger and the hurt finally taking over.

Sherlock crossed the room and grabbed onto John’s hand, eyes pleading with him to understand.

“Moriarty was going to _kill_ you, John. You, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson would all be dead if I didn’t jump off that building,” Sherlock explained, voice steadier than it had any right to be. 

John was visibly shaking now. Sherlock had jumped off a building and had run off for three years to do god knows what, all to keep him safe. It was all too much, and it couldn’t fit inside John Watson. He couldn’t process it all and he had so many questions running through his mind, but when he looked over at Sherlock he saw how desperate he looked for John to just let it go, and so he did. 

He settled for a quiet, “Is it over?”

“Yes,” came Sherlock’s reply.

“Will you tell me about it someday?”

“Yes,” he said again, sounding surprised this time, looking like he hadn't expected to mean it.

John nodded, and twisted his hand around to grab hold of Sherlock’s to keep it in place. 

Sherlock squeezed his hand tighter, and said, “Dinner?”

Neither of them had been able to let go of the other’s hand since Sherlock had initiated it, and it comforted John to think that Sherlock needed the touch just as much as he did. Sherlock led them over to the sofa to sit, and John looked over and noticed the Chinese takeaway spread out over the coffee table. Tears belatedly sprung to his eyes as he looked it all over and saw that Sherlock had bought a little bit of everything just as they used to do after solving a case. He covered his mouth with his free hand and tried to stifle the sobs forcing their way from him, but failed miserably. How could he when Sherlock was alive, and Sherlock _remembered_ him?

“I’m so sorry, John,” Sherlock offered, looking lost and uncomfortable in the presence of all of John’s pain.

When John’s sobs finally subsided, he didn’t dare to try and speak. It wasn’t okay, not really. Not yet, anyway, but John forgave him as he always did, and always would. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand once more, and finally released it to turn to the food. He picked up the carton of his favorite steamed dumplings and began to eat. Sherlock followed John’s lead, for once, and ate, making small, appreciative noises with every bite.

They ate in a companionable silence, passing the cartons between them, and it was all so familiar that it really wasn’t fair at all. John hadn’t gotten to scream _do you have any idea?_ or punch Sherlock in the face or do any of the things he’d imagined on the way over. It was like the last three years hadn’t happened. They were still Sherlock and John and John was frustrated that he wasn’t frustrated about it at all.

“John.” 

“Sherlock.”

“John, I- Mycroft has been paying rent to Mrs. Hudson to keep this place available for me, and as you can see, I’m moving back in, so I’ll be needing a flatmate,” Sherlock rambled, sounding unsure, “Your- That is, the bedroom upstairs is free if you’d- try this again. With me.”

“Yes,” came John’s immediate reply. He shouldn’t have said it, but this was Sherlock, and John couldn’t help himself.

All of the apprehension faded from Sherlock’s face, and it morphed into the most brilliant smile. Then John was smiling too because whether it was right or not, he was happy, and he was damned if he’d let this miracle of a second chance pass him by. 

“Right. Good,” Sherlock said, puffing up with confidence, “I’ll have Mycroft send some people round to pick up your things and have them brought here immediately.”

“Sherlock, it’s late. I can just go back and sleep at my other flat, and we can deal with it later.”

“Unacceptable. Besides, we won’t be sleeping tonight.”

John felt his face flush despite himself, but he managed a weak, “What?”

“Yes, it turns out while I was away Lestrade’s men have been making a mess of things, and I need to sort them out.”

He crossed the flat in a flash, and John was captivated by the sight of him. He reveled in the feeling of being swept up by Sherlock once again, but resigned himself not to get too carried away. This time it would be different. This time he had to tell Sherlock everything.

But it would have to wait a bit because now the game was on again, and Sherlock glowed brilliantly.

“Come along, John,” he said, and disappeared from the doorway.

“You want me to come with you?” John shouted in response.

Sherlock peeked his head in, wearing a playful smile, and said, “Of course. I’d be lost without my blogger.”

John laughed, though Sherlock still didn’t deserve it, and followed him into the battlefield.


End file.
